


No Refunds, No Returns

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had been back for over a year and things had been going...well, Mycroft thought. Well as could be expected. Then, one day, Molly leaves a note on his pillow and a brusque message on his phone, and he is clueless as to why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Refunds, No Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dweo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dweo/gifts).



> (Based on a prompt in the Sherlockmas holiday fanworks fest, I went to tvtropes and hit random, and it gave me this to include: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ProportionalArticleImportance )

Molly knew it was a bad idea as soon as she let John into her flat. “I can't. You know that I can, John.”  
  
“I haven't even said anything, Molly.” His worn, friendly smile—finally reaching his eyes again, finally real again—made her chest ache. She hated lying to Mycroft but to have John give her that  _look_  and tell her he understood, that it was fine, really, and he would keep her secret... Well, it made her feel as if she had been kicking puppies in front of children and telling them the truth about Father Christmas at the same time. “Besides, I didn't come over to rattle on about your, ah, situation.” His glance slid past her, towards the living room, where Amos was sprawled on the sofa, mouth open in sleep. “I came over to give you this.” He held out a thick, cream-colored envelope, cheeks pinking, and added, “Sherlock's mum decided we had to be official and all...and, well, she's paying for it...”  
  
Molly closed her mouth and barely managed to stop herself from whooping in surprise and pleasure. Sherlock had been back over three years now, and Mary had been gone for two. John had finally caved and admitted his feelings a bit over a year and a half ago—Molly was fairly certain that she could recall the exact date if she gave herself a moment, because that was the day after she had holed up in her office with him, a bag of hula hoops, bottles of lemonade, and pretended the whole situation wasn't odd and that John Watson moping and getting emotional on her figurative shoulder was not in any way an episode of  _Twilight Zone_. The invitation was simple: their names, the date (over three months away, she noted) and the location, what seemed to be a private estate in Sussex. “Well, alright to be some people,” she teased.  
  
John made a harrumphing noise and shrugged. “She wants us to 'do it up right' and keeps harping about...well. Mary and I had a nice wedding. A...a very nice wedding,” he sighed and shook his head a little, clearing cobwebs. “Well, anyway. I hope you can make it.” He nodded towards Amos. “You and your plus-one.”  
  
“We'll see. I definitely can make it but...well. We'll see how things go with Amos.” She smiled, tucked the invitation into the basket she used for her mail, and offered John tea. When he demurred and made his excuses to leave a few moments later, she walked him to the door. “John... I'm sorry that I put you in the position of lying to Mycroft for me.”  
  
“Hey, no worries,” he said, smiling again, this time less crinkley and more tired. “If I had to count how many times I'd lied to Mycroft for Sherlock...”  
  
“I'm not Sherlock,” she said, glancing at Amos as he shifted on the sofa. “My deception wasn't to save a life.”  
  
John looked past her, watching Amos squirm on the sofa before falling back into a deep sleep, then caught her eye once more. “Yeah, Molly. It was.”  
  
  
Mycroft watched John leave Molly's flat, head for the taxi rank at the corner, pause, then turn and head for the nearest tube station. He made a mental note to check Sherlock's bank account and release more of the inheritance if things were skint once more and taking a taxi was an extravagance. As John disappeared around the corner, Mycroft shifted his attention to Molly's windows three floors up. The bedroom light was still on, but the one in the living room went off as he watched. Nothing as trite as her shadow moving across the drapes let him know she was in her room, but he knew it nonetheless. She had always been one to turn off lights when she was done in a room, leaving a trail of dark in her wake. The few weekends she had spent at Mycroft's town home across the city, he had teased her about her habit, especially when she forgot that he was still in the room working and left him plunged in shadows. He watched the bedroom window hungrily, glad to be alone in his own car for once, without bugging devices to hear or track. He couldn't do this with his assistant in the car, or even one of the numerous security officers assigned to his detail. Any excuse he could manufacture for watching his girlfriend—ex girlfriend—in her flat at night was flimsy at best. After a few minutes, the bedroom light went out as well. Only eight o'clock, Mycroft noted, and a twist of bitter jealousy rose in his chest.  _Is she alone? Is she missing me? Don't I deserve more than a note on a pillow and a half-hearted apology on voice mail?_  He knew that he was being sentimental, letting his heart lead his mind, but he could not stop himself, not this time. Not after almost two years of Molly, two years of peppermint and rose scented pillows when she spent the night, two years of awkward fumbling turning into sure hands, knowing lips and teeth and tongues, of... of  _everything_. Molly owed him more than that, and he was tired of waiting. The buzz of his phone against his chest made Mycroft bite back some rather fine swear words, knowing it could be only one person. “Yes, brother dear?”  
  
“John said he saw one of your cars across from Molly's flat. Don't.”  
  
“I do not think this is any of your affair, Sherlock.” Silence stretched like glue between them until Mycroft sighed. “I know that you feel you owe Doctor Hooper--”  
  
“Molly. Her name is Molly. For fuck's sake, Mycroft, you've been  _involved_  with her for two years, two years during which I am assuming she was without her higher reasoning functions in order to maintain a relationship with you. Get the stick out of your arse, brother dear, and get your car off her street. It's drawing attention.” The line went dead and Mycroft resisted—barely—the urge to throw his phone against the dashboard.   
  
  
“Is he still out there?”  
  
Molly turned to see Amos standing in her bedroom doorway and smiled, holding her hand out to beckon him closer. “He's leaving, Dash. It's nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Is he a nice man?” Amos snugged close, tucking his head against Molly's hip and his thumb against his lower lip, not quite sucking it but ready should the need arise. “He looks like a bird.”  
  
Molly laughed a bit at that. “It's his nose, isn't it? Quite beaky.” When Amos nodded, she smoothed his riot of dark curls back from his eyes and brushed a kiss across his brow. “We should rest, Dash. Long day tomorrow at the courts.”  
  
“Oh.” He slid down a bit, not sitting on the floor but definitely slumping. “Is... is it real, then? Ma isn't coming back?”  
  
“Darling,” Molly sighed, sitting and pulling him into her lap. “Darling Dash... I wish she could. I so, so wish that she could.”  
  
Amos was quiet for several minutes, breathing against Molly's neck as they rocked gently back and forth in the dark of her bedroom, Toby winding about them with soft purrs and mewls. Finally, Amos said in a soft voice, “I saw a show on telly once where the boy's ma came back for him. She was okay then.”  
  
Molly nodded, squeezing her eyes tight closed, and holding Dash just a bit harder. Neither spoke for the rest of the evening, even when they crawled into her narrow bed and stared at the streetlight patterns on the ceiling.  
  
  
Mycroft scowled into his coffee. It was vile and he knew that it was so on purpose. Artemis (she was back at the start of the alphabet this week) did not appreciate being snapped at, apparently, even if it was entirely warranted. One simply did not inquire as to another person's morning if one was not prepared to hear the answer, Mycroft reminded himself, and it would do Artemis well to remember that the next time she asked if he had slept well. His schedule was, as usually, tightly packed and regimented down to the absolute minute, so when a knock fell on his office door two minutes before his conference call with the prime minister and M, Mycroft groaned. “Yes?” His surprise when John Watson stepped into the room rather than Artemis was obvious but fleeting, Mycroft schooling his features into neutral lines in less than a heartbeat, but he knew that John had noticed, had seen the widening of the eyes and the parting of the lips. “I can only assume that this is not about Sherlock, otherwise I would have received a notification via other means.”  
  
“One day, your spy gadgets are going to all be flushed down the loo,” John remarked pleasantly. “I'm here because of Molly, actually.” He smacked a folded newspaper down onto Mycroft's desk. “I know you get them all, but I think you may have missed something this morning.”  
  
“If this is some adolescent-type attempt to explain herself to me via a friend...”   
  
“Hardly,” John laughed. “No, just my own attempt to pull another Holmes' head out of his own ass. Sometimes,” he said, heading back towards the door, “people do things for those they love and don't realize they only had to ask for help rather than cut ties.”  
  
Mycroft arched a brow. “Your platitudes need work, John.”  
  
He paused and leaned against the door. “Just read it, Mycroft.”  
  
With a sigh to rival one of Sherlock's, Mycroft unfolded the paper. “ _Ripper Imitator Strikes Again, Sends Hey Boss Letter to Scotland Yard_.” He glanced up at John. “Molly has a disturbing new hobby, then?”  
  
“Oh, for fuck's sake, what is it with you two and murders? Here!” He strode back across the room and snatched the paper from Mycroft, refolding it into its original presentation. “Here.”  
Mycroft's brow furrowed as he found the smaller-font lede John had been intending for him to read. “Oh. _Oh._.”  
  
John made a noise that could have been a sigh, could have been the word 'finally' choked under exasperation. “Sometimes, you can't see the forest for the trees.”  
  
“Thank you, John. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am already late for a conference call and I would sincerely hate for the center of London to become a smoking crater by the end of the day.”  
  
“I never know if you're joking when you say things like that.”  
  
“Let's not find out, shall we?”  
  
  
Molly had honestly expected Mycroft to appear much sooner than he did. Four days after seeing him outside her flat, three days after visiting the courts with Amos, and two days after checking in with work to make sure she really did still have a job to return to at the end of the month, she was surprised to find, instead of the delivery man from the Chinese restaurant at her door, it was Mycroft. Though, to be fair, he was holding her order from Golden Jade. “I... um. Oh, bugger.”  
  
Mycroft blinked slowly, reminding her of Toby. “I'd rather talk first.”  
  
“Oh! Oh, for—Come in, Mycroft!” She stood aside and let him enter, wishing like Hell that she had put on something nice, something other than one of her brother's sweatshirts and her old yoga bottoms. Mycroft nodded, moved past her and set the bags of food on her small kitchen table. Amos was playing in what was fast becoming his own bedroom, stacks of boxes slowly coming unpacked as they managed, toys first of course, and had not come out since Molly had rung for take away. She wondered how long she had before it was all up, before she had to see Mycroft's lips twist in annoyance, maybe distaste, as he accepted her break, acknowledged that she was right and knew what she was doing. “Would you like some kung pao chicken?” she asked into the quiet. She knew he was drinking in the details of her flat, of her appearance, and making deductions even Sherlock would miss. She did a mental run-through of everything and knew Amos' toys were all in his room, the kitchen was tidied up with no sign of another resident, and she was...well, she had showered recently, and that was the best she could say about how she looked.   
  
“I...no.” He finally met her gaze. “Molly...I did not appreciate your note. Or your voice mail. I think I deserve better than that.”  
  
“Um.” She sank into one of her kitchen chairs and let out a shaky breath. “Mycroft, I... I care about you. Deeply. But I can't be the one for you.”  
  
He gingerly sat across from her, his body language screaming distrust of her spindly furniture. “Playing devil's advocate here, but what makes you think I was ready to settle down and for you to be 'the one'?”  
  
Her cheeks heated and Molly knew she was a very unattractive shade of pink. “I...I found the receipt, Mycroft. No refunds, no returns. The jeweler on the high street...”  
  
He blinked once, twice, then laughed mirthlessly. “And what was the receipt for, Molly?”  
  
“Ring. It said 'ring, size 7'.” She looked up from her clasped hands and stared at a point somewhere between his sternum and nose. “Mycroft, I'd suspected for some months that I should leave you but seeing that receipt...”  
  
“You hypothesized without all of the data, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft admonished, throwing in an actual  _tut, tut_  for good measure. “It is akin to the analogy of the blind men in the room with the elephant.”  
  
She sank down further in her chair. “One feels the tail and says it's a rope, one feels the trunk and says it's a snake...”  
  
“Precisely. No, I believe you saw the receipt and seized upon that as an excuse.” He leaned forward and forced her to look him in the eye by sheer dint of will. “Why were you thinking of leaving me, Molly? We've had two...two wonderful years. The happiest I've known in a very long time,” he added, voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “Though I suppose the same is not true for you?”  
  
“What? Oh, no! No, I was...I was very happy. Everything, everything about you...us...made me happy.” A soft thud sounded back in the flat and she froze. “Mycroft.”  
  
“Molly,” Amos called, his footsteps quiet but audible as he crossed the living room, “is dinner here? My tummy is empty. Oh! Bird man!”   
  
Molly closed her eyes. “Amos, this is Mister Holmes. Mycroft... this is Amos. He lives with me now.”  
  
“Molly says Ma can't come back,” Amos stated, his voice quivering only a little. “Molly, I'm hungry.”   
  
“Here, lovey, take the egg rolls. You can eat them in the living room while I speak with Mister Holmes.”  
  
Amos seized the moment and the opportunity to eat in front of the telly, taking the packet of egg rolls. and all but running into the living room. Mycroft watched him go before turning his attention back to Molly. “He said that his mother is not returning, and I know you have not had a child by birth. In fact,” he said, leaning across the table to lay his hands atop hers, “I know you adopted him just days ago. I...I saw the article in the paper. The one some reporter intent on human interest stories had run, about the high number of adoptions in London proper this year. Your name was mentioned.”  
  
Molly looked horrified. “What? Why?”  
  
“Molly, dearest... your name still has a bit of a tingle of fame to it, to these up and coming reporters, the ones who heard the story of Sherlock's death and resurrection, and your part in it.” He smiled thinly, squeezing her fingers with his own. “Someone leaked your name, most likely, and it was a blurb in a short column. 'Doctor Molly Hooper of St Bartholomew's Hospital is even adopting. Her son is a young man from the north of England who recently lost his birth mother to cancer.'.”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Molly groaned, twisting to her feet and rushing to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. She downed it, gasped for air, and poured another, sipping it more slowly. “Amos can never see that. He knows his mother is gone but... Good God, his four! Why would they print that?”  
  
“It is illegal, I'm sure,” he said carefully. If it wasn't already, he promised himself, it would be by week's end. “I will see what I can do about minimizing the damage.”  
  
“It's done now,” she said, voice thick. “Rebecca was my best friend from age six until we went to uni. We lost touch until about two years ago, around the time we...well. Around the time we started. She already had the cancer that would kill her. Seeing Mary go through it...well, it felt like the entire world was dying around me. Mary, Rebecca... Well. When Rebecca knew she had no chance left, she asked me to adopt Amos when the time came.”  
  
“His father?” Mycroft asked softly, well aware of the little ears just yards away.  
  
“Out of the picture since Rebecca found out she was pregnant. She had no real family left, and she asked me...” Molly's face crumpled and Mycroft found himself on his feet, holding her close as she sobbed into his cashmere jumper. “I couldn't let him go into care, Mycroft. He's so little! And...and I always wanted to be a mum and I know I'll never really be his mum but I can try to do well for him, and make sure he's loved, and make sure he knows how much his own mum loved him, how much she wanted to be here for him and how much she hated to go...”  
  
Mycroft let her cry, let her sobs be muffled in his shoulder as Bob the Builder prattled on in the other room, mixing with Amos' giggles. “You left because you thought I wouldn't help? Because you thought I couldn't...”  
  
“Because,” she sniffed, pulling away. “You've said yourself, loads of times, that your life is not one that is good for a family. Then I saw the receipt and I thought...Oh, fuck me. I've buggered everything up, haven't I?”  
  
“The receipt,” he said gently, leading her back to her chair, “was for a ring belonging to my mother. It was in sore need of repair.”  
  
Molly's voice, when she spoke, was tiny. “Oh.”  
  
“And no, my life is not conducive to having a family but...but I can make adjustments.”  
  
She looked up at him and blinked owlishly. “What?”  
  
“I do love you, silly woman. And there are...measures...which can be taken...”  
  
“Mycroft, stop. Are you asking me to marry you?”  
  
He tilted his head to one side. “Not at this time, no... But out of curiosity, what would you say if I were to ask right now?” The concave spot in his chest where Molly resided was not so concave at the moment but it was threatening again, ready to pit inwards and make him gasp.  
  
“I... I'd say. Oh.” She buried her face in her hands for a moment and shook her head. When she finally looked up, she smiled. “I'd say that dinner is getting cold, wash your hands and help me set the table.”  
  
Mycroft raised a brow, but smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”  
  
“And,” she called after him, “take off your shoes, get comfortable. I still have some of your pajamas here, you know.”   
  
Mycroft felt his heart race, thudding against the formerly concave spot. “Oh?”  
  
“Yes,” she laughed, “oh. Now go! Food is getting cold. Amos! Bring those in here and come sit!”  
  
Mycroft grinned to himself as he padded to her bathroom and turned on the tap. In his pocket, the ring rested, the one that had belonged to his mother. It could wait, he knew, as long as they needed. Things were more complicated now, by far, but being without Molly would be far worse, far more difficult, than being with her. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he dried his hands and he glanced at the text.  _ **Security posted.**_ He shot back a reply on the secure line and tucked the phone away. Dinner was getting cold, and had a new person to meet.


End file.
